Burn
by daea
Summary: A close-up of one of Riku's early childhood days, and the mysterious father who at one time considered him his son. [one-shot, second-person pov]


**Burn**

You knew he was kidding, but as a child that age, it was hard for you to understand what was so funny about the joke.

You glared at the man pointedly and jutted out your bottom lip, crossing your tiny arms over your chest in whatever obstinacy you could muster up as you dug your bare heels into the sand. Each grain felt ablaze underneath the calloused skin of your feet – every speck dry and hot and scratchy.

That morning your mother hadn't been feeling very well, and she'd forgotten to slop the pasty sun-block against your skin like she normally would have, so now you suffered. True – you couldn't stand to wait there while she applied the stuff, but now you saw why she always insisted on it being so important. Your fair skin was quickly transforming into a painful shade of red.

But even at age four you knew that the sun didn't work according to your schedule. If you weren't wearing any protection, then tough luck. It's not like it was going to stop shining just because _you_ wanted it to.

Pouting harder, you looked away from the offensiveness of your father's laughing gaze, turning your head of blinding silver hair towards the serenity of the melodic waves and pretending to ignore him. Yet he continued to laugh, and you continued to hear him, and although you tried as best you could to focus on the ignorant seagulls propelling themselves into the ocean, you continued to see those intensifying aqua eyes that continued to sharpen their accurate stare upon your fragile frame.

Those eyes could see everything; your father had told you once when you'd tried to steal from the ceramic cookie jar that sat on the counter's edge. You'd refused to eat your noodles that night – having been feeling particularly spiteful and frustrated all day long – so even when both of your parents had warned you that that would be it and you would get nothing for dessert, you'd only pushed your bowl aside and kicked the table's leg. Your father had placed the treats inside one of the higher cabinets upon finding you, and when you'd cried and begged him to please let you have just _one_ to eat, he'd merely shaken his head and reminded you that only good boys get good things, and he'd fingered your silky tresses before using his thumb to wipe away your tears and exiting through the back door to continue with his training.

You knew he never went back on his word.

You knew he could see you no matter where you were or what you did, and it confused you to try to comprehend that you would never be able to hide, but you believed him nonetheless. Your father never lied. It was as simple as that.

Just as you were beginning to wonder whether he was ever going to stop laughing or not, he hooked an arm around your narrow waist and pulled you into his lap.

Frustrated, you fought to resist, but obviously you were no match for the man's superior strength. You squirmed and twisted, twisted and squirmed, hit and punched and punched and hit. But after all, you realized finally as your energy began to drain and the tender flesh on your back stinging as it rubbed up against his black swimming trunks became noticeable, he wasn't named the island's top fighter for nothing.

It was then that you relaxed and, defeated, sniffled childishly at the loss you'd known would come.

Your father patted your head and you buried your flaring cheeks into the hardness of his chest – which had seemingly not been affected in the least by the merciless scorching that the sun refused to stop inflicting upon _you_. Sculpted muscles rippled from underneath the taunt flesh, reminding you vaguely of the waterfall near the pond that ran so flawlessly over the large black rocks jutting out perpendicularly to its constant rushing.

Having previously been rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, he reclined so that he was sitting comfortably in the golden sand, passing his fingers gingerly over your sticky and salt-coated hair the entire time. He used his other arm to support you up against his athletic figure as your contrastingly little build shook and rattled and shivered – now chilled from the drying seawater and soft breeze that had only moments ago felt refreshing. Your tears fell gently against his textured abdomen, and you welcomed the whispers that fell like feathers against your water-logged ears.

Behind the two of you laughter rocked the regressing shoreline; playful yells and mischievous hoots filling the vivid atmosphere with even more life.

You lifted your baby arms and locked them around your father's midsection as best as you possibly could.

Why you cried, exactly, you didn't know, but then again, you didn't know a lot of things when you were still such a little boy.

Perhaps it was because of the way he'd chuckled when the heavy wooden sword had proved too much and caused you to stumble and lose your balance in the clearness of the gently lapping waves. Perhaps it was the frustration that you'd been holding in since the very first hours of the morning – when you'd forced yourself to get up especially early just so that your mother would have time to take you for that promised walk amidst the sunrise – but instead she'd ended up falling ill and decided to stay in bed.

Perhaps it was crankiness, perhaps it was boredom, perhaps it was the way you felt with the glaring rays if the sun boring deep into your pale complexion – scorching you – burning your porcelain skin.

Perhaps it was your best friend's failure to show up at your doorstep this afternoon like he'd promised to do every day.

In a four-year-old's mind, however, none of these things registered right away.

So you sat there and you cried as your father rocked you easily back and forth. His excessively long hair draped over your shoulders whenever he leaned towards the glittering floor, shielding your back somewhat from the simmering heat and combining with your own platinum locks to look like the mane of one.

You choked slightly as a fresh set of tears washed over your streaking face – adding to its uncomfortable warmth – and quivered against the body of the man who never ceased to pet your tiny head.

"You must be tired today," he mumbled sympathetically, his voice soft and soothing, and as he leaned back all the way against the uneven pillow of sand he reached for his discarded white tee shirt, which he used to cover your trembling body.

Its thinness didn't help much, but at least, you thought absently, at least it was better than nothing, and you murmured an incomprehensibly muffled whine into his ivory skin.

"You're just tired today." Your father turned his penetrating gaze up towards the swirling patterns of the summer sky – watching carefully – his gaze skillfully skimming across the endless horizon.

Another mystery about your father was the way he always seemed to know the answer to everything. Sometimes you convinced yourself that he had to be more than human.

Even though that first seasonal storm wouldn't hit your village until many hours later into the night – many, many hours later, after your mother had tucked you snugly into your bed for the night and your father had enchanted you with yet another one of his stories – he could sense it as if it were about to rock the little island in only a matter of minutes.

And ironically, it would be the first of the two storms that your young memory would never be able to erase.

But of course you didn't know that yet.

**end**

_Well, that kind of just popped out of no where while I was bored last night. It isn't really significant…and it doesn't really make any sense…but…whatever. I don't care. chokes on lameness of title I'm having severe writer's block with my other story, so I might as well do something else for the time being, right?_

_Right.__ XD_

_And guess who I had as his daddy…………… snrk snrk _ __


End file.
